


A Most Unusual Courting

by rei_c



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Blood, Character Death, Courtship, Food Metaphors, Gore, Language of Flowers, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Mates, Murder, POV Nogitsune, Scenting, Sociopath Stiles Stilinski, Spark Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-19
Updated: 2018-04-19
Packaged: 2019-04-25 01:01:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14367522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rei_c/pseuds/rei_c
Summary: "Courting gift?" Stiles asks. "An interesting move."It returns the look, hears a skipped beat of Stiles' heart, wonders if its own has skipped as well, down here, with Stiles.But not an unexpected one."No," Stiles says. "Not an unexpected one."





	A Most Unusual Courting

It takes the banshee and runs back to Oak Creek, a strategic retreat with tactical advantages. Its mind is turning over the new development and it discards old plans, thinks up new ones, every second, all of them now taking its new independence into account. Chaos and pain in someone else's body is one thing but now it has its own, doesn't have to filter its plan or its food through another. It smiles. 

It's never been satisfying, eating through another's action, but Stiles is -- was -- something different. Something close to the fox even before they merged, something that took what was on offer and accepted it, guzzled it down, made it more. It wonders how the others see Stiles, if they know what they have in their midst, but immediately shakes its head free of that question. They have no clue. They have no _appreciation_ for the cunning, vicious, lethal jewel; they call him human, think him weak, decided long ago to give him protection rather than the wide circle of cautious worship he truly deserves. It saw the look in Stiles' eyes, that moment when they heard the wolf's howl, saw the way Stiles glanced at it, glanced over the board, saw the tricks and traps and truths circle through Stiles' brilliantly amoral mind, decided to change the game, change the setting, _split them apart_.

Centuries. It's been looking for centuries for a being who might eventually prove capable of what Stiles already _is_ \-- and at such a young age. There's no way it'll leave Stiles alone; if Stiles wants to keep them apart, Stiles will have to kill it, burn it to ashes, scatter the remnants into running water and bury them under rowan, send them flying through air, eat them down and vomit them back up again. 

It looks down at the banshee, tightens its grip in her hair and drags her deeper into the tunnels. She'll serve to warn it of Noshiko's little fireflies, yes, but she'll also bring Stiles. It doesn't know why Stiles tethered himself to such a creature but that tether will serve it well now. 

\--

The oni come, have their allegiance forcefully realigned, and it sends them on their way. It'll make courting presents of Stiles' pack, every single one of them, from that pathetic waste of an alpha to the human hunters reeking of silver. The golem will serve as a distraction while it makes its first offering, keep the pack's focus away from the true threat beneath their feet, the real purpose of their presence. 

It smirks, grabs the banshee by the wrist, yanks her close. _He'll come for you_ , it tells her, gets up close and inhales the scent of her death, her blood, her magic, _but just wait. Wait until he knows._

"Knows what," the banshee says. It leans over and licks up the taste of her tears, all that pretense of bravery, the beginning onslaught of desperation. It's insatiable and she's so, so _delicious_. "You're going to die. He's going to kill you." 

_Doubt it_ , it murmurs. _You haven't been inside him like I have. And once I make him a present of your weak little pack, we're going to rain down an apocalypse like the world's never known._

The banshee hisses, opens her mouth. It backhands her into unconsciousness. Her scream wouldn't kill it and wouldn't ruin any of its plans, but it would be annoying. 

\--

The banshee's in the middle of a tunnel when the alpha pup and Stiles arrive. It's waiting further back, in the shadows, and it can't help the pleased smile when the pup drops to its knees but Stiles doesn't, eyes fixed on something he has no right being able to see. They might be split into two bodies now but they're still connected. 

"Go back up," Stiles tells the wolf. "I've got her; they need you up there." 

The wolf doesn't even question Stiles, just runs back to the abomination he calls a pack, leaves Stiles alone. 

"You didn't kill her," Stiles says. He steps over the banshee without taking his eyes off the shadows. 

_A present for you_ , it says. It moves out of the shadows, meets Stiles halfway. It can't help drinking in the sight of him, that familiar face, that hypnotising scent. 

Stiles' lips twitch, a minute gesture that no one else would read but it was in Stiles for weeks. It knows what that expression means, what emotions fuel it, how it sings through blood and muscle and vibrates within the deep marrow of bone. "Courting gift?" Stiles asks. "An interesting move." 

It returns the look, hears a skipped beat of Stiles' heart, wonders if its own has skipped as well, down here, with Stiles. _But not an unexpected one_.

"No," Stiles says. "Not an unexpected one." He turns away; it wants to howl, wants to kill, wants to wreak bloody destruction across this godforsaken town, but Stiles tilts his head, glances over his shoulder. It calms, then, at that look, even as Stiles drops to one knee next to the banshee, strokes hair off of her face and behind her ear. "A lovely gift," Stiles says. "And I know just what to do with it." 

Stiles floats one hand above the banshee's throat, closes his eyes and _twists_. The smell of blood and decay pours out of the girl; her eyelids fly up, showing the whites of her eyes as her mouth opens in a scream that never comes. 

Oh. _Oh_. 

"Lydia," Stiles says. "Lydia, it's me, it's okay, we've gotta get out of here, okay? Lydia, come on, please, it's me." A sheen of care and love covers Stiles' words; he doesn't mean them but the girl doesn't seem to realise. She nods, starts to speak, mouth moving but no sound coming out, and she flinches, panics, one hand thrown out wide. "Lydia, what's -- oh my god, did it -- _Lydia_." For a moment, just for a moment, the banshee looks at Stiles as if she really sees him, as if she's finally intelligent enough to fathom who he is, but then the moment passes and she lurches into Stiles' arms, holds him tight and sobs without a noise. 

Stiles pulls her in tight, close, but he's looking over her shoulder, looking at it, and grinning. 

It's never felt so full in all its life.

\--

It doesn't wait around after that. It goes to the surface, watches its oni fight, calls them off and leaves the pack standing around, stunned at the sudden cessation of battle. It looks at its enemies, Stiles' future gifts, counts them: the alpha, the betas, the child matriarch, the disgraced hunter, the fox -- and that would hurt but she's young, she's so very young, she has no idea what she's doing yet, the stupid kit. There are two or three missing but it knows where they are, as well. It's going to have to plan this very carefully; Stiles deserves only the best and it only has these chances to prove it. Stiles could refuse the courting, has the right to refuse if its gifts aren't the finest, and possibly should, based on the failure of its opening present. It should have done to the banshee what Stiles was forced to, should have made the gift perfect instead of convenient, and it vows not to make that mistake again. 

Still. Stiles accepted. Stiles _smiled_. That has to count for something. 

\--

The veterinarian is next, the druid who sinks to a level of cryptic that only wind kitsune could hope to surpass. He's been hiding Stiles' potential, refuses to train Stiles out of jealousy and fear. If the druid wants something to fear, it will give the man a princely gift, though it cannot blame him for the envy. The magic Stiles possesses, that spark of his, is a beautifully wild thing, the lawlessness of desire limited only by the riot of imagination. Stiles' spark is what attracted it to Stiles in the first place but that magic is not why it stayed, not the only reason it craves everything about Stiles so desperately. 

Stiles has done his own research, of course -- how else would he have known how to perfect the gift of the banshee? -- but the druid is hiding books, hiding knowledge, that might unleash Stiles even further. It will get those texts and offer them as a gift, along with the druid's corpse for ever thinking it could limit a spark's primal power. 

\--

An injection of _letharia vulpina_ would be poetic, as might enough foxglove to stop his heart, but the druid is a traitor twice over: to the family he once swore to protect and to a fellow magic-user. It waits until the man is leaving his office, then wastes no time in breaking his neck. It makes quick work of the body, cutting off the druid's head, disembowelling him, quartering him, then ransacks his office for anything of worth. 

It packs everything useful into a couple of boxes, unlocks all the cages, leaves the front door open, drives the man's car to Stiles'. The house is dark, driveway empty. It curls its lip at the thought of Stiles being forced to spend time with a pack that doesn't value him, at the idea of Stiles wasting his talent and time on a father who has neglected him for years and a supposed friend who takes him for granted. 

It's sitting there, trying to decide whether to break into the house and leave the gifts in Stiles' room, or to respect the integrity of Stiles' den, when it hears a familiar rumble. It slips out of the car, waits for the Jeep to park, inclines its head when Stiles greets it. 

"If the first gift was a release from shackles," Stiles says, "what's the second?" 

Release from shackles. Of course Stiles would understand. Of course he would know. 

_Knowledge_ , it says. _Information_.

"You killed Deaton," Stiles says. It nods and Stiles laughs. "I never liked him. Less, after the lichen. Can I see what you brought?" It opens the trunk, lets Stiles trail nails over the book spines, take out three vials at random, glance at the labels: tincture of yellow monkshood, powdered Nemeton root, cowhage blossom. "I assume all of his _vulpina_ is in here as well?" Stiles asks. It nods, and Stiles says, "The dose he gave me -- I'm not sure if it's because of you or what they did in Eichen House, but it scarred. I thought you'd give me that scar, at least, when we separated." 

It shrugs, says, _I thought about it._

Stiles tilts his head, one corner of his mouth curved up, too sharp and greedy to be called a grin. "Can I see?" 

It doesn't answer, merely turns, takes off its shirt. The Lichtenberg figure is a branching thing full of arcs and angles; it stretches over one shoulder blade, a few tendrils curving up its neck, around its side. It shudders when Stiles touches the scar, traces the lines, pads of his fingertips so soft, so light, on skin that echoes his own. The press of lips is not entirely unexpected; the hint of teeth is. 

"I accept the gifts," Stiles murmurs. "Leave the car somewhere interesting, would you?" 

_Of course_.

\--

The car ends up smashed into a substation on the west side of town. The accident takes down the power supply to one hundred thousand people across the county. The generators serving the county hospital, the mall, three firehouses, and one of the elementary schools all explode rather than start up. Half the region remains dark well into the next day.

\--

Two days later, it goes for the bitten beta, the one that reeks of hunter. The pup doesn't mean much to Stiles -- none of them do, really, but this one even less -- and the creature's a stupid little thing, more concerned with bending to suit the whims of others than letting them break on him, but he'll do. 

He's easily lured into the woods and he's a poor fighter when he realises what's happening, though that may be due to shock more than anything. It's hard to fight something wearing a packmate's face, even when he cottons on to the fact that he's not fighting Stiles. 

When the pup's bleeding wolfsbane and mistletoe, it pins him to the ground, uses an athame it stole from the vet's office to slice him from throat to belly. The ribs are easy to break; the pain singing out from the pup slides down its throat with rich ease. It cuts out the organs and sets them to the side, fills the cavities with flowers and leaves, takes the scarf from around his neck and ties a ribbon there instead, and goes to the trees. 

\--

It takes nine hours for people to come looking: the matriarch, her hunter father, the alpha, Stiles. It can tell that the sight of the dead beta hurts the girl, the boy, but the hunter compartmentalises and Stiles kneels next to the body, touches the heart, the liver, a curl of intestine. 

"I see your hidden worth, you have my lasting interest," the matriarch says. She sounds horrified. She might actually vomit; it hopes she has the common courtesy to turn away from the gift before she ruins it.

"Eternal interest," Stiles says. "There's yarrow root as well." The others look at him; Stiles raises an eyebrow, says, "Wikipedia hole? Floriography's pretty interesting. There was this whole thing in the --" 

The hunter cuts him off, says, "We need to find out who would -- why this message, and why in Isaac?" 

Stiles looks up, meets the man's eyes, gives him two seconds of complete disdain before his expression settles into disbelief. "We know who did it," he says. "There's only one thing killing people around here right now -- at least, I fucking hope there's only one. The nogitsune." 

"Then who is --," the matriarch starts to say, before she stops, looks at Stiles, narrows her eyes. "This message was for _you_." 

"I don't think anyone should be alone," Stiles says. "It's going after people I care about." 

Lie. And yet no one calls him on it. The girl, boy, and man leave. Stiles waits, looks unerringly in its direction, graces it with a smile. "It's beautiful," Stiles whispers. He plucks a sprig of coriander from the dead wolf's chest, nibbles on the leaves as he walks away.

No one alone. It's going to have to think of something special. 

\--

It considers the hunters, the girl and her father, but the pain they feel at the beta's death and the hatred oozing out of them towards it, towards Stiles, is a delicacy of a meal. They'll stay alive for now. The twins are a possibility but they're flanking the alpha and it has ideas for the alpha-gift that don't include killing the pup this early in the courtship. It settles on the other two betas, the two former alphas connected to the tree, to this accursed land that kept it hostage for so long. 

It'll be a fitting gift, to offer Stiles freedom from this territory after its offered him release from his tether, knowledge, and a declaration of everlasting devotion. 

\--

"You're not Stiles." 

The two betas stand in front of him, both tense, now, wary. It could've killed them without letting them know the truth, could have tricked them or trapped them, and any other time it probably would, but courting gifts are supposed to be the best and they won't be if they're not earned. 

_Would it matter if I said I was doing this for him_? it asks. 

The younger one flinches but the older one -- his eyes narrow in thought then flare wide open, crystal blue darkening into that fetching beta shade. "Lydia," the wolf says. "Alan and Isaac. You did that for Stiles. Courtship gifts." 

This wolf always was one of Stiles' favourites; now it can see why. If only this one could be brought to heel, trusted, then it might consider gifting Stiles with something living, but it already knows that this wolf's thoughts will always be only for itself, even with a fly or twelve. Stiles doesn't need that. Stiles needs devotion for his own sake, not survival's sake, but, oh, what they could do with a wolf at their feet. 

The other one, though. That one could be trained. He's already broken in so many delicious ways; it wouldn't take much to shatter him. And if that one was an alpha again, could use the pack bond to subdue the other -- but no. It's a lovely thought but the gift these two offer is freedom, not mastery, and so they'll have to die. 

"Why Stiles?" the young pup asks. 

It smiles. _Because he is worthy_.

\--

They go down fighting but they do go down.

\--

It takes the pack a day to find the bodies. Stiles isn't with them; neither is the alpha. It goes to Stiles' house later, hears the rabbit-fast rhythm of his heart coming from the kitchen, the steady, boring rhythm of the alpha's upstairs, caught fast in a sleep so deep that it cannot be natural. Stiles opens the door before it can knock, stands there with a hint of a smile on his face, crosses his arms in front of his chest. 

"I hear you left me the Hales," Stiles says. "Did you take pictures?" 

Thankfully, it did. It offers Stiles the younger wolf's phone, watches as Stiles scrolls through the gallery, slowing down as he looks at some of the close-ups, gives the phone back. The smile on his face is fully present now, a soft, fond expression that suits the rapacious appetite in his eyes. 

"How did they die?" Stiles asks. 

_Screaming_ , it replies. _Do you accept_? 

Stiles reaches out, fingers trailing down its cheek. "Keep the phone," he says. "And forward me the pictures." 

The door closes. It just stands there and laughs. 

\--

It decides the fox should be next. The girl is new to her power but she represents the greatest threat, right now, especially with her mother's support. Noshiko is -- a disappointment, in the end; it had trusted her, thought it could depend on her hatred and vengeance, but she chose to trap it, bind it, refuse it, instead. Taking Noshiko out of the picture is more of a gift for itself but it remembers the hospital, remembers the way she threatened Stiles, and that will not be allowed to stand. 

It comes to the house while the kit and her father are at school. Noshiko is waiting in the living room, fresh Go board between her and it. 

_Will you let me kill you if I win_? it asks. 

"I know better than to start a game with you," she says. The calm written across her face flickers, gives a glimpse of the light hidden behind her human skin. "You are void. Heaven does not play with emptiness, it fills it." 

It smiles, steps closer, lets its fingers dance along the wall. _And what would you fill me with, oath-breaker_? _You have no tails. There is no one else here. You are alone in every way that matters._

Noshiko's smile grows tight, fixed. "And you are not?" 

_Not for long_.

"You would court the human child?" Noshiko asks. The smile has dropped from her face, horror and disgust vying for control. "You would _mate_ him?" 

The laugh is real; so is Noshiko's flinch. _I have searched for one like him_ , it says, _searched for centuries. I am not like you. I will never settle for anything less than an equal, will never conform when I can control, will never take when I can earn, will never hunger when I can be sated. I thought you were the same, cousin, and yet I find you here, with these people you call family, in this land you call home, and it repulses me. You are a betrayal of everything we are and once you're dead, I will teach your kit the truth and then I'll kill her as well_.

She looks -- she's gathered herself enough to look calm but it can taste the pain, the hate, the discord rolling off her in sheets. She hates herself, hates it, hates her husband and daughter, but she loves them all as well, thin threads of satisfaction when the love should be thick enough to dance on. It realises, in that moment, that she deserves to die but she does not deserve the honour of being a gift. Neither does her daughter. 

It calls the oni, lets them destroy her, doesn't bother getting its own hands dirty, not for this. 

_Take the kit when she's out of school_ , it tells them, after, when Noshiko's in pieces, her head resting in the center of the empty coffee table. _Separate her head from her body and bring her sword to me._

\--

It leaves the sword in Stiles' Jeep along with the Go board and the stones. 

\--

[ _Did you do it yourself_?]

[ _The oni_.]

[ _Good. Then I accept_.]

\--

The others move into Stiles' house and barely leave. The twins sleep downstairs, the hunter in the spare room, the alpha and matriarch in Stiles' bed, one on either side of him. The banshee's locked up in Eichen House with the coyote, the sheriff is working overtime and sleeping at the station, the nurse rarely leaves the hospital. It thinks, carefully, about the permutations available. Should it take the hunter and his daughter together, leave the alpha for last, leave the sheriff alive -- there are so many options and while there's all the time in the world, it wants Stiles, wants him _now_ , yearns for the chaos that a mated nogitsune pair will bring to the world. 

There's something to be said for speed, too. The gifts need to be perfect but if it can wrap them up and offer them quickly, it speaks well for its knowledge of its mate. A fool would fumble in the dark but it has never been a fool and never will be. So. A decision to be made. 

\--

It lets flies loose into Eichen House, unlocks the cells. It sends more toward the jail, the high school, the quaint little downtown. It thinks, surrounded by screams, sirens, subversion. Then -- it smiles. 

\--

The twins are impulsive, still unused to life without the alpha spark, still trying too hard and too desperately to prove themselves to the alpha. It's easy to lure them out, simple like breathing to lead them into a trap in the hospital while they look for the nurse. Ostensibly they're there to pick up the alpha's mother -- no one travels alone, not anymore -- but they're quick to abandon their mission when it offers them the chance, rash decision to chase what they no doubt believe is Stiles through the halls. They crash through a door in the basement, nearly trip over each other in shock when they see the nurse tied to a chair, gagged and blindfolded. 

It moves fast, then; it blows powdered wolfsbane in their faces, kills them while they're blinded. These two are not a challenge, not at all, and it sighs, because Stiles has been forced to live with them for far too long. But their death wasn't the gift, or, rather, not the entire gift, so while the nurse fights her bindings, it slices open the left leg of each twin, uses claws to pull out the bones, and then stands in front of the woman, studies her. 

She's strong, determined, principled. Such a person brings no fun to the world; it kills her messy and then it scalps her. 

\--

It takes three days to craft the real gift, then it has to figure out how to deliver the present to Stiles. He's never alone, not even in the bathroom, sometimes, and it would worry but every glimpse it gets, Stiles just looks more and more amused. In the end, it pays someone to deliver the box to Stiles' house, and it watches from down the street as Stiles opens it right on the doorstep. 

The alpha vomits, the disgraced hunter turns white, but Stiles reaches in, lets the box fall as he takes the two bones, carved into daggers, the nurse's hair braided and wrapped around the base of each dagger to cushion the grip. 

"Oh my _god_ ," the alpha says, and vomits again. 

"It's been a long time since I've seen a pair of werewolf-bone _misericordes_ ," the hunter says. "Left thigh bones, one each from a set of twins. That's -- rare would be putting it lightly." 

Stiles twirls the knives, says, "They're very well made."

"You can't keep them," the alpha says. "Jesus, Stiles, that's my _mother's hair_ , do you understand that? And Ethan, Aiden -- their -- we _saw_ the --" 

"They're well made," Stiles says, again. "And useful. I'm keeping them. Throw the box away." 

It smiles, inclines its head to Stiles though it knows the object of its affection has gone back inside to store the _misericordes_ before the alpha gets his head together. When it lifts its head again, looks at the house, it sees the hunter, still standing in the open doorway, scanning the street. 

Interesting.

\--

There are four left: father, hunter, matriarch, alpha. It decides to take them together, one final, mass offering. It will need to get in the house, determines it must be done while they're sleeping in order to be able to subdue them all and set the scene properly, and studies blueprints, plots, plans. The only qualm it has is entering Stiles' home without invitation. Still, it hopes that the gift will override any annoyance at the trespass.

The house is ringed with mountain ash, foxglove, and crushed wintergreen berries. It's a smart tactic but they forget that it came from Stiles, _is_ Stiles, still, in a sense, and so none of the usual supernatural proscriptions apply. It doesn't even do them the courtesy of breaking the line, merely steps over it, goes to the front door. Before it can reach out, the door opens. 

Stiles. Of course. It explains the steady heartbeats, the way all of them are asleep, no one on watch.

 _I'm prepared to fight them_ , it says. 

"I'd rather see the main act," Stiles says. "The prologue's not as interesting. And really, I know you; we're still connected, remember? You've been worrying about breaking into my den without permission. So here: come in," and he steps to the side, opens the door wide. It enters, brushes close to Stiles, takes the opportunity to lean close, scent him, let its lips glide over Stiles' cheek. Stiles laughs, asks, low, "Will this count as incest, or as masturbation?" and returns the scenting, kisses it properly. 

It can't help the smile, nor the laugh. Stiles tastes _divine_ , all the power of a spark's chaos and none of the human morality so often restraining the use of that magic. It's a heady thing, would be enough to tempt any lesser being into abandoning their plan, but it wants Stiles, has to finish the courtship and prove itself, earn the right to have Stiles at its side. 

It steps back, tilts its head in acknowledgment at the test Stiles just offered and asks, _Will you wait down here_? 

Stiles closes the door, locks it. "I'll be in the kitchen," he says. "Come get me when you're ready." 

\--

Stiles' sleeping spell starts wearing off as soon as it has them all in the living room. They're on their knees in a line -- hunter, father, alpha, matriarch -- with their hands tied behind their backs. The alpha's binds are made of mistletoe and he's in a circle of mountain ash; the humans have their ankles tied as well. The sheriff lists as he comes to and the alpha pup's already asking questions, but the other two are silent, eyes clearing as they wait, search for an opening, try to find an advantage. 

They won't. 

It casts a wary eye over them, nods once, goes into the kitchen where it stops, stunned. 

Stiles is leaning against the table, one hip pressed to the wood, and he's beautiful, of course, but -- there's a plate. There's a plate next to him, and on the plate: two scoops of _azukimeshi_ ; two slices of fried tofu; two boiled eggs, split down the middle; a tiny bowl of rice wine.

"An incentive," Stiles says. It looks up at him, meets his eyes, and one side of Stiles' mouth curls in amusement. "Earn it." 

_I'm ready_ , it says, _if you are_? 

\--

They go back into the living room. Stiles sprawls out on the couch, gestures for it to begin. The sheriff's eyes go wide with betrayal, a choking noise stuck in his throat, and the alpha and his toy aren't much better. The hunter, though -- the hunter's watching, eyes flicking between it and Stiles; he may not be half as smart or cunning as Stiles but he's not stupid, either. 

"This is your last gift," the hunter says. It can almost _see_ the man's heart sinking. The taste of despair, of pain, of rage, is so heady that it's forced to bite back a moan. 

"Gift?" the alpha says. "Are you -- what do you mean, _gift_?" 

It laughs, says, _Even the reborn wolf figured it out, little pup. And yes, it is._

"So it has to be good," the hunter says. "Has to be the best. Why am I -- how do I count as being part of the best?" 

It hears Stiles move to sit up, looks over its shoulder to see Stiles staring at the hunter with something approaching fascination. Stiles meets its eyes, the two of them communicating silently with minute flicks of lip and eyebrow, the slightest movement of head and hand. It eventually huffs; it's worth it to see Stiles grinning that vicious, ravenous grin, and looks back at the hunter. 

It would change its plans for Stiles, if Stiles asks, but Stiles refuses. Well. Once the courtship is over and accepted, it will be able to shower gifts at its mate whether Stiles likes it or not. 

_You know_ , it tells the hunter, _I think that your father's body would have rejected the bite anyway, even without the mountain ash pills. Silver is malleable, yes, but not changeable. He was never meant to be a wolf._ It gets close, crouches, says, _Neither are you. But I'd give you that choice if you'd like. It just so happens we have an alpha right here._

"If my choice is the bite or death, I'll take the bite," the hunter says. 

It's not surprised but the girl is. "Dad?" she asks, looks on the verge of tears even though she's trying to summon her spine. "You'd -- what?" 

"That doesn't answer my question," the hunter says. "Scott's here because he's Stiles' best friend, his father, fine, that makes sense. But me and Allison? Anyone else could've fit in here better than us. We're just convenient." 

It laughs, says, _The alpha is_ not _Stiles' best friend._ All four look at it, confused, and it rolls its eyes, turns back to Stiles. _How have you not killed them all already_? Stiles chuckles; it can't help but sit up straighter, knowing that it's the cause of Stiles' delight, Stiles' pleasure. _I had a plan_ , it tells the offerings. _A grand, glorious plan, designed to draw out the strife from all four of you, something overflowing with hurt and agony and the utter_ mess _humanity offers. But now I just want to kill you._ It looks at Stiles, says, _They don't deserve it. They don't deserve_ you.

Stiles shrugs one shoulder, says, "You already know what my answer's going to be. Do it however you like; I don't care except that it gets _done_." 

With a thought, it summons the oni. Two of them hold the pup down and it walks right into the circle of mountain ash, grabs at the alpha's head, twists enough to bare the child's neck. It bites deep, savours the flavour of despair and desperation, then the _blood_. Kitsune generally only offer mating bites, but the mere touch of a nogitsune's anarchy-ridden teeth to a wolf's blood introduces an infection that no wolf -- true alpha or otherwise -- has ever survived. 

It takes one of the oni's swords. While the alpha's screaming, bones breaking and healing in agonising turn, mouth and nose and ears dripping black blood, it runs its sword through the matriarch's heart. She falls, breaks the mountain ash around the pup, but he's too far gone to take advantage of it. Instead, his mind already half-crazed with death, he sets upon the girl with his teeth, biting everything in reach as he howl-sobs, rubs his face in her blood, rips off chunks of flesh and chokes on them. 

The hunter's screaming, the sheriff is as well, and they don't stop until after the two children are dead. It drinks deep of the rage, the anguish, the heartbreak, then it drives the edge of the sword through the hunter's neck, watches him die.

When the hunter's breathed his last, eyes gone glassy in death, the sheriff spits at it. A moment later, he looks completely shocked when Stiles -- _Stiles_ \-- is the one to slap him for his disrespect. 

"Son," he breathes. "Stiles, it's not too late to stop this; you have to know this is _madness_ , please --" 

"You represent freedom from my humanity," Stiles tells him. The non sequitur leaves the sheriff speechless. "The last thing tying me here, the only thing keeping me here, keeping me -- normal." 

"But you are," the sheriff says, and he's fighting his bonds desperately. "Stiles, you -- Mieczysław, you're mine, you're my _son_ , you don't need to do this." 

Stiles gives his father a smile, something cold and reeking of ice, of midnight, of beautiful disregard. "You're right," he says. "I don't need to. But I want to." He pauses, tilts his head, asks, "When did you forget why mom wanted to kill me? Or did you convince yourself it was the dementia?" 

The man -- practically breaks, hearing that question asked so dispassionately. "She was -- she wasn't herself, Stiles," he says. "She'd lost her mind, she was a shell of a person, she didn't know what she was saying." 

"She was a spark," Stiles tells him. "Magic. She knew _exactly_ what she was saying." Stiles drops to a knee in front of his father, says, as gently as it's ever heard Stiles speak, "This is where I would balk, if I loved you." It hands over the sword before Stiles has to ask, watches as Stiles caresses the edge of the blade, listens as Stiles says, "You should have listened to her and killed me when I was a child. You should have let Chris kill me in the loft. But you didn't, so now I'm going to kill you, and I'm not going to care, except that once I'm done, I'll accept the courtship of a fox who wears my face. We're going to mate and we're going to bring bloody ruin upon this planet. And that, in a sense, is because of you. For letting me live, so that I can have this, you have my thanks." 

There's no hesitation when Stiles kills his father. 

\--

The oni leave. It offers a hand, helps Stiles stand, doesn't let go of Stiles' hand. _Have I proven myself with my gifts_? it asks. _Will you accept my courtship and become my mate, leaving your humanity behind to become what I am, to do what I do, to live as I live_?

"You have," Stiles says. "And I will." 

They share the plate, share a kiss, share a bite, the way they already share a face, a connection, a hunger. 

_Are you ready_? it asks. 

_Yes_ , it replies.


End file.
